Chasing Tails
by Joodiff
Summary: Set not long after S4 "Anger Management". When Frankie accepts a lift home from a potential crime scene late on a Saturday night, she ends up asking Boyd a question she could find she very quickly regrets... Complete. B/F. T for language etc. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**A/N & Dedication:** _The prompt for this was supplied by Never Stop Believing in Love. It's dedicated to her and to anyone else nobly prepared to give a bit of Boyd 'n' Frankie a go. ;)_

* * *

**Chasing Tails**

by Joodiff

* * *

"_Why don't we have any security cameras in here?"_

"_Well, because you said over your dead body would anybody ever spy on the unit."_

"_I did?"_

"_Mm."_

"_I was wrong, wasn't I?"_

"_Well, you weren't because it'd be a little bit like working in a goldfish bowl."_

"_What, we'd all be swimming about chasing each other's tails…? And we don't do that, do we?"_

"'_Night, Boyd."_

- Boyd & Frankie, "Anger Management".

* * *

"You should ask for your money back, you know," Frankie says conversationally as she finally snaps closed the lightweight aluminium briefcase that contains what she personally considers the absolute bare minimum of equipment required for a preliminary examination such as this one.

Boyd is still glaring at the rapidly-retreating back of the young uniformed officer he has just finished barking irritably at. Evidently not in the mood for light-hearted banter, his reply is a curt, "What?"

"Your anger management woman," she elaborates. "You should ask for your money back."

His head turns and the dark glare re-focuses. On her. "Funny. You're a real comedian, Frankie. Well?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "'Well'?"

"Can we get out of this bloody freezing rat-hole now? Or are you having far too much fun?"

She knows exactly why he's so bad-tempered, and in fact it has very little to do with either her almost-immediate verdict on the animal bones – _Sus scrofa domesticus_ – now neatly boxed for transportation, or with the inexperience and ineptitude of the over-eager police officers responsible for both their presence and for securing the perimeter. No, mainly Boyd is bad-tempered because it's well past ten on a cold Saturday night and if the call urgently summoning the Met's controversial Cold Case Unit to Wandsworth had come just a couple of hours later, it wouldn't be him but Spencer reluctantly keeping her company in the derelict factory basement.

Frankie straightens up, starts to peel off her thin latex gloves. Smirking to herself, she says mildly, "If I didn't know you better, Boyd, I'd say you really weren't that keen on hanging around here."

"I fucking hate rats," he grumbles, pointedly turning up the collar of his long, heavy coat against the damp chill permeating the stale air.

He does, too. Detests them with a real passion. No-one actually seems to know why, not even Grace. And Grace demonstrably knows far more about him than most people. Not at all bothered by the scuffling rodent noises easily detectable beyond the temporary blaze of harsh white light illuminating the immediate area, Frankie shrugs. "I don't think they're too keen on you and your size tens, either."

"Are you done?" he growls impatiently.

"Yeah, I think so. Laurel and Hardy out there can sort out delivery of this lot to the lab."

"Let's get the hell out of here, then."

Someone at New Scotland Yard will be hearing all about this on Monday morning, Frankie thinks with an inward grin as she follows him up the stairs and out onto the long-abandoned factory floor. Comprehensively and at considerable volume, no doubt. Boyd doesn't suffer fools gladly at the best of times, and he's already made it very clear that the CCU will not be picking up the tab for this evening's… debacle. She can hear him muttering darkly to himself as he sweeps out of the building ahead of her, petulantly kicking at inoffensive bits of debris as he goes. He really isn't a happy man, and – as ever – he doesn't care who the hell knows about it.

Boyd's is not the only evening that's has been abruptly disturbed, she reflects dryly, trailing in his wake. She's not altogether delighted about it herself, but something – perhaps a residual trace of guilt regarding the Sam Jacobs case – has thus far prevented her from emulating Boyd's loudly-expressed displeasure. It's foolish, of course, but Frankie still feels a little as if she's on some sort of probation, as if he hasn't yet quite forgiven and forgotten the matter of her unfortunate deceit regarding the recent break-in at the CCU's lab. Though, knowing Boyd, he probably has. One of the distinct advantages of his quick, fiery temper is the speed with which things that vex him are confronted, dealt with and dismissed. When he bites, he bites extremely hard – everyone in the unit knows that – but once his grievances are aired that's generally the end of the matter as far as he's concerned. It's an enviable quality; one Frankie wishes she shared.

"Where's your car?" he asks, unwittingly interrupting her wandering thoughts.

"Huh? Oh. Not here. One of the lads from Wandsworth nick picked me up."

"I see," he says, his tone heavily sardonic.

She gives him a sideways look. "'I see'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Often accept lifts from strange police officers, do you, Doctor Wharton?"

Despite the evening gloom, she doesn't miss the sudden sly glint of amusement in his eyes. Now they are on the verge of leaving the abandoned factory, his black mood is quite evidently improving rapidly. Promptly, she says, "Yeah; after all, I cheerfully grab a ride into work with you or Spence, don't I? And let's face it – policemen really don't come much stranger than you two."

Finally, Boyd grins back at her; the first such expression she's seen since he grumpily joined her in the disused basement. It's a weary, wry sort of grin, but it's a grin nonetheless, one that's a little too engaging given the lateness of the hour and their physical proximity. It's a lot better for Frankie's equilibrium when he's surly and short-tempered. And that's not something she'd willingly admit to anyone. Ever.

"You don't want a lift home, then?" Boyd asks her, insouciantly swinging his car keys. He raises his eyebrows at her.

"I didn't say _that_," she tells him instantly. "But if you _really_ want to leave me out here _all on my own_ in the middle of the night, I guess I can attempt to get a cab…"

Boyd snorts. "You're breaking my heart, Frankie. Go on, get in the car."

-oOo-

It's a mistake. She realises that almost immediately. Only moments after it uncomfortably dawns on her that under his familiar dark coat Boyd is not dressed in one of the expensive designer business suits that he favours, but a very ordinary, very well-worn pair of jeans and the kind of casual, shapeless sweater she would never have credited him with even _owning_ let alone ever _wearing_. Plainly, once enthusiastically summoned to the potential crime scene, he didn't waste any time changing into his normal working attire. He's not the only one, of course, but in Frankie's case, jeans are typically a given whether she's working or not. Comfort and practicality generally matter a lot more to her than fashion. It's remarkably difficult to look remotely stylish wearing a lab coat or a forensic suit, after all.

Ruefully, she keeps her thoughts to herself and takes stock of the situation. It's Saturday night, it's late and she's all alone in a warm, comfortable car with a good-looking, charismatic older man who has no damned right to look anything like as good in faded Levi's as he does. A good-looking, charismatic older man she's enjoyed an impishly flirtatious working relationship with for several extremely interesting years. Until very recently, in fact, when _impish_ unexpectedly packed its bags and headed for destinations unknown leaving her to bravely cope alone with _flirtatious_.

And that's why it's a mistake. Because there is a palpable edge of tension in the car that has nothing to do with hostility and everything to do with attraction.

_Mutual_ attraction.

It's a heady and dangerous concept. One that's becoming more and more unnerving by the day, and harder and harder for Frankie not to attempt to examine in clinical detail. For all the good it would do her. Interpersonal relationships are definitely not her strong point, doubly so where men – particularly fascinating and complicated men – are concerned. Frankie doesn't have Mel's natural intuition or Grace's startling ability to simply read people at a glance, and she knows it. As a scientist, a self-confessed lab rat, it's not usually a problem professionally, but on a personal level…

Then, by all accounts, Boyd's pretty obtuse about such things, too. At least, he seems completely oblivious to the hopeful torch a certain _other_ member of the team – one who is unquestionably old enough to know better – is quite obviously carrying for him. And Frankie feels bad about that, too. As if she is somehow trespassing on someone else's territory by even thinking about –

"You're very quiet tonight," he says suddenly. "Everything all right on the home front?"

Typically gruff, she reflects. Roughness masking discomfiture. It's part of Boyd's role as the unit's commanding officer to monitor the day-to-day welfare of all the staff assigned to him, be they police officers or not, but it's not a part of the job he relishes. Or is even vaguely temperamentally suited to. Usually he quietly delegates such things to Grace who quite candidly operates a highly selective filter system where Boyd is concerned. Grace understands perfectly what he _needs_ to know just as she instinctively seems to understand what he doesn't _ever_ need – or want – to know. It's a system that usually works out very well for everyone concerned. But tonight Grace isn't present to gently ask the right questions on his behalf. Frankie glances briefly in his direction, not at all surprised when he continues to stare doggedly at the road ahead instead of returning her look. She shrugs slightly. "Yeah."

Silence. Heavy and awkward, as if they're both acutely aware of the difficult, strained atmosphere, even if the probable cause might be far less easy to identify.

Ridiculous, she thinks instantly. She knows _exactly_ what the cause of the tension is, and – realistically – so does Boyd. He must do.

"_We'd all be swimming about chasing each other's tails…?"_ his voice suddenly echoes in her memory, ludicrously heavy with meaning. _"And we don't do that, do we?"_

Ambiguous? Frankie doesn't think so. Not at all.

"…_we don't do that, do we?"_

Regret? Reproach? A gentle warning?

"…_chasing each other's…"_

"The day after Jacobs broke into the lab," she says abruptly, startling herself a little. Even though she is resolutely gazing out of the passenger window she feels Boyd look her way, just for a moment. She wonders what his expression reveals – if anything.

"What about it?" he asks predictably and just a little too nonchalantly.

It's too late to back away from the words. Self-conscious but determined, she continues, "What did you mean? When you came to get your shoes, and you made that crack about us 'chasing each other's tails', what did you mean?"

There's a split second of silence, raw in its pitiless intensity. Frankie imagines she hears him sigh, but if he does, his voice is perfectly calm and controlled as he replies, "I don't actually remember saying anything like that."

He's lying. Somehow she automatically knows he is. Still not looking at him, she presses, "You did, Boyd. You know you did."

Another long moment of loaded silence. Then the grudging admission, "It was just an off-the-cuff remark, Frankie. You were the one who said having surveillance cameras installed would make it feel too much like working in a goldfish bowl."

"Yes," she agrees neutrally, unhelpfully, suddenly doing her best to close the uncomfortable conversation as rapidly as she unexpectedly opened it. On balance, at that particular moment Frankie would rather be just about anywhere but confined alone in a car with him late on a Saturday night. Too traumatic, too potentially risky. She wishes – fervently – that things could quickly and cleanly go back to the way they used to be when they laughed and flirted freely and easily, both confident that none of it meant a damn thing.

Maybe it's just _her_, she thinks uneasily. Maybe Boydgenuinely has no idea why a painful, sparking tension has developed in what has always been a remarkably relaxed and cordial working relationship despite his quick temper and her innate prickliness.

"…_chasing each other's tails…"_

Oh, he knows. Of _course_ he does. He's a mature, experienced man in his early fifties, for heaven's sake, not a gauche, naïve adolescent just finding his feet with the fairer sex. Obtuse or not, the evidence certainly supports Frankie's strengthening belief that whatever's been inexorably happening between them is most definitely a two-way street.

The sharp, unexpected right turn that Boyd makes brings her out of her pensive reverie. Inexplicably they seem to be heading north towards the river. Certainly they're no longer on any direct route to her place – or his – that Frankie recognises. Frowning, she asks, "What are you doing, Boyd? Where are we going?"

"We need to talk," he says brusquely, firmly staring at the road.

It's just about the very last thing Frankie expected him to say. Staring at his strong profile, she realises that her mouth has become very dry. She licks her lips nervously. It doesn't help. Carefully, she tries, "We do? What about?"

Boyd spares her just the briefest of looks. "You're not a fool, Frankie – and neither am I. This can't go on."

Something inside her that is obstinate and contrary makes her pointedly ask, "_What_ can't go on?"

"You know damned well what I'm talking about," he growls, and she's sure he unconsciously tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "_This_. You and me. It's just not… appropriate."

"Boyd – "

It's a good thing it's late and the street they're driving down is largely deserted because without warning he pulls the big Lexus sharply into the kerb, stamping hard on the brakes. The car comes to a halt more-or-less beneath a streetlamp and even though he still doesn't look round at her, Frankie can now see his expression very clearly. Tight, stubborn; brooding. Neither of them speaks, but then neither of them needs to – the tense atmosphere in the car is now more volatile and more dangerous than ever.

Surprising herself, Frankie is the one who eventually breaks the deadlock, her voice not much more than a murmur as she hesitantly admits, "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Jesus," he mutters in response, one hand leaving the steering wheel to rub his brow. "Frankie – "

"Oh, don't worry – I know it's immature and ridiculous and completely unprofessional," she interrupts quickly, tersely. "I really don't need the lecture, Boyd."

He shakes his head slowly. "It's not going to happen. Not now, not ever. It can't."

"I know."

The tension is still escalating with every second that passes, even more so in the brittle silence that follows her words. She tries looking at him out of the corner of her eye and finds him staring bleakly back at her. It makes her pulse race even faster. She really can't remember the last time she felt so incredibly uncomfortable in anyone's presence. Staunchly, she looks down at her hands. They are resting in her lap, fingers involuntarily tightly entwined.

"I need some air," Boyd says abruptly. "Come on, let's walk."

Not sure if she's really doing the right thing or not, Frankie dutifully opens the passenger door and climbs out of the big silver SUV. The night is still unpleasantly chilly, and there's a slight, disagreeable dampness to the air that tells her they really are very close to the river. Just a second or two later Boyd joins her on the pavement, locking the car and plunging his hands deep into his coat pockets. He stares at her wordlessly before jerkily starting into motion. Not liking the idea of being left behind so late at night, Frankie follows, glad when he moderates his long, quick stride a little.

"Where are we?" she asks him, more to break the taut silence than anything else.

"Rotherhithe."

"I know _that_. I meant… Oh, forget it."

"Not far from Surrey Quays," Boyd supplies gruffly. Head firmly down against the damp breeze, he continues, "Frankie – "

"Don't," she says quickly. "Let's just walk."

So they do, and it doesn't take them very long to reach the paved riverbank with its benches and litter bins and street lamps. Ahead of them, on the other side of the dark, choppy water, the distinctive pyramid-topped profile of One Canada Square dominates the spectacular glittering night-time panorama of Canary Wharf, and for several long minutes they both simply stand and stare, not looking at each other, not saying a single word. This is _their_ city, the place where they both live and work. Vibrant, cosmopolitan, occasionally dangerous and always exciting. Never more so than at night.

This time it's Boyd who clears his throat and breaks the silence with an awkward, "These things happen, Frankie. It's no-one's fault. Sometimes when people work closely together in a high stress environment – "

"Oh, please," she says, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Don't patronise me, Boyd. I really don't need you quoting whatever Effective Personnel Management course you got that from."

His retort is immediate and sharp. "This isn't easy for me, either."

There's an edge to his voice that makes Frankie take a second to look at him properly. He looks tired, he looks stressed, but most of all he looks very, very ill at ease. Nowhere near as confident and self-assured as she's used to seeing him. It makes him seem far less imposing; considerably more human. Nowhere near as harshly, she says, "Yeah, I get that. I do. But you're the one who wanted to talk about it."

"Believe me, I really don't _want_ to. I just… accept… that we _need_ to. If we're going to continue working together."

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh, come on; it's not _that_ bad."

"It is, Frankie," he insists quietly. "It _is_ that bad. I'm your boss, for God's sake."

"I'm employed by the FSS, Boyd; not by you – or by the Met. According to my contract – "

"Screw your contract," he retorts impatiently. "_I'm_ the head of the unit you're attached to and you report directly to _me_."

"Bollocks," she counters, though she's well-aware that he's right. In far more than merely a technical sense.

Boyd shakes his head, but instead of snapping back at her he simply mutters, "Oh, very mature."

Frankie goes back to staring blankly at the river. Despite the twinkling lights reflected on its perpetually moving surface it looks impenetrably dark, cold and inimical. At length she finally asks, "Why's this got under your skin so badly?"

"Why do you fucking think?" he demands, his incredulity very clear. "Christ, Frankie."

_Because we're spending more and more time chasing each other's tails_, she thinks grimly. She's right – Boyd is just as caught by the inappropriate, stifling attraction as she is. And perhaps for him, in his position, it's even worse than it is for her. Far more risky. She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them nothing has changed. The river still flows, Boyd is still standing at her shoulder and the small space between them is still highly charged with aggression, apprehension and need. As stoically as she can manage, she says, "You want me."

His reply is defensive, evasive. "Is that a question or a statement?"

It's a statement. Definitely. She tries a casual shrug. "You tell me."

"What is it with women?" he demands irritably. "Why do you always have to play stupid, complicated games?"

"'People in glass houses'," Frankie quotes at him. When he glares at her, she adds, "At least I'm trying to be honest."

"You want me to be honest with you?"

"Isn't that rather the point of this sort of conversation?"

The dark gaze directed at her is frighteningly intense. "And how much honesty do you think you can handle, Frankie?"

Ignoring the answering shiver that instantly tracks up and down her spine, she retorts, "See? You're still being evasive. A question for a question isn't honesty, Boyd. It's not even close."

He turns to face the water again, leaning heavily on the metal barrier at the edge of the footpath. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Look, the bottom line is this – it stops, all right? Whatever it is that's been… happening… between us, it stops. Tonight."

"Just like that?" she challenges. "What, simply because you say so?"

"Yes."

There's something about the way he says it. The automatic assumption that his will be the final word on the matter. It riles her, make her lash back at him with, "God, you really are an arrogant prick sometimes, aren't you?"

"If you like."

"Not much, no."

Boyd turns his head just enough to survey her, and his expression has become hard, grim. "I'm not getting any pleasure from this, Frankie, believe me. But the way things are going… It _has_ to stop. Now. Before it's too late."

"Before it's too late for _what_, Boyd? You wanted to talk, so damn-well talk, will you? Be honest with me. Just for once, be _honest_."

"There's no point," he says obstinately. "Make no mistake, if we can't reconcile this… problem… I have the authority to have you removed from the CCU. The FSS will send me a replacement the moment I ask for one. And don't think I won't do it. If I think it's in the best interests of the unit and its personnel, I'll do it in a heartbeat."

"Oh, and you really think I'd stand for that?" Frankie sneers. "I'd take you straight to a tribunal."

"And just how do you propose to defend your actions during the Jacobs case?"

"You wouldn't," she says defiantly, but she feels a lot less confident than she hopes she sounds.

The response is cold. Unforgiving. "I would. And you know I would."

Frankie stares at him, disbelief and anger vying for supremacy in her mind. A plethora of conflicting emotions twists savagely in her gut, and it takes more self-control than she cares to admit to simply grind out, "Fine. Your unit, your rules. You've always made that _very_ clear. I'll save you the trouble shall I? I quit, Boyd. You'll have my official letter of resignation on your desk on Monday morning."

That seems to jolt him. She sees the impact register in his eyes. He frowns. "Frankie…"

"No," she tells him coldly. "I'm done with this. All of it."

And then Frankie defiantly turns her back on him and walks away.

-oOo-

She doesn't get very far. She expects him to come after her – of course she expects him to – but she runs out of footpath before he does, and when he finally reaches her she is standing staring disconsolately at Greenland Pier as she tries her best to make some sense of the evening. Boyd halts silently next to her, and just a quick sideways glance confirms that he looks just about as morose and defeated as she feels. What really surprises her though, is just how subdued he sounds when he admits, "You're right. I'm an arrogant prick."

"You really are," she agrees sombrely.

"I just…" he sighs. A deliberately heavy sigh. He runs his fingers slowly through his hair, pure silver strands shining brightly amongst the darker grey. "I'm really not good at this sort of thing."

"No shit."

Now gazing pointlessly at the pier himself, Boyd says, "I have responsibilities, Frankie. Whether you like it or not. It's not just you and me who could get caught in the potential crossfire, is it? It's everyone who works with us, everyone who relies on both of us to do our jobs and do them properly. Getting… involved… with a co-worker is almost always a bad mistake; surely you know that as well as I do?"

Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her padded jacket to attempt to warm them a little, she counters, "Getting involved? Jumping the gun a bit, aren't you, Boyd?"

"I don't think so, do you?" he inquiries, a hollow note in his quiet voice. "Christ, tell me you don't feel it every time we're alone together?"

"Of course I do," Frankie admits without a qualm. "But we've been doing a damn good job of not acting on it so far."

His answer is a surprise. "Yeah, well maybe I'm sick and tired of pretending that everything's fine and it's all still just a bit of harmless fun to liven up the day."

Suppressing the traitorous flicker of hope she immediately feels on hearing the words, Frankie says dryly, "That's not the impression I was getting a few minutes ago."

Boyd sighs again, just as heavily, just as intentionally. "I was _trying_ to do the right thing."

"Well, trust me, you were going entirely the wrong way about it."

This time the response is much slower and when it comes it's clearly self-deprecatory. "So much for trying to become more self-aware, eh?"

Grudgingly, she says, "It's really not you, you know, Boyd. The whole caring, sharing thing."

He glances sharply at her. "Oh, I care, Frankie."

Relenting, she nods. "I know you do. Too much, probably. You just don't do… touchy feely… very well."

"Thank bloody God."

The dark sincerity in his voice makes her smile slightly, reluctantly. Carefully, she asks, "So what do we do, Boyd? Ignore how we obviously both feel and just carry on flirting like it's going out of fashion? Or pretend we never had this conversation and try our best to keep out of each other's way as much as possible?"

"Neither suggestion seems like a particularly viable option to me."

"Nor me," she admits. "But I don't want to be pushed out of the unit, Boyd. I love my job, and I'm damned good at it."

"No-one's going to push you out, least of all me."

A renewed spike of anger makes her demand, "So what the _hell_ was all that about, then? Back there?"

He gives her a faint, rueful smile. "That – as you so accurately pointed out – was about me being a prick. You really want to hear the truth, Frankie? All right, I'll tell you the truth. You're right; I want you. I want you a damn sight more than is good for either of us. And it's driving me crazier by the day simply because I know I can't have you."

The admission is more than enough to turn the fragile flicker of hope into something far stronger, something far more powerful and difficult to ignore. Her contrary, conflicting emotions in complete turmoil, Frankie asks stubbornly, "Why not?"

Boyd faces her full-on, no longer bothering to hide the complicated mix of things reflected in his eyes. But he's strangely gentle as he replies, "Come _on_, Frankie – didn't I make it plain enough for you? You can argue the toss all you want, but the bottom line is I'm your superior. There are all kinds of policies and – "

"No," she says, shaking her head firmly. "There are _no_ policies that cover our situation. I'm not a police officer and you're not responsible for either my salary or my professional advancement. Those things are dictated by the FSS and the Home Office. No-one could accuse either of us of – "

"Don't be so naïve," Boyd interrupts testily. "Christ, we're not exactly popular at the Yard as it is, are we? Rumours of that sort of professional misconduct could do the unit all sorts of damage."

"So we keep it quiet."

"Keep _what_ quiet? There's nothing _to_ keep quiet."

"But there could be," Frankie tells him obstinately. She can hear how childish and self-indulgent she sounds and she hates it. But she's not prepared to give up easily; not when she thinks that if she pushes hard enough for long enough there might – just _might_ – be a ghost of a chance of Boyd giving ground. She can sense it in him – the growing temptation to simply allow the boundaries to crumble, to follow his instincts and deal with the possible consequences later. She pushes him again with, "For God's sake, Boyd. You like me, I like you… Why _shouldn't_ we be allowed to see where that could lead?"

But he's every bit as stubborn as she is – if not more so. "It's not a question of being _allowed_ to do anything. It's a question of integrity; of propriety. Old-fashioned concepts, I grant you, but then I'm a pretty old-fashioned sort of guy."

Frustrated, she snaps, "You're a bloody dinosaur, _Detective Superintendent_. That's what you are."

The reply is dangerously soft. "Because I take my responsibilities seriously?"

"No," she bites at him angrily, ignoring the implicit warning. "Because you imagine people actually care what the hell you get up to behind closed doors in your own time. Newsflash, Boyd, the world just isn't like that anymore; it doesn't revolve around you, and it's certainly not going to fall off its bloody axis if we jump into bed together. You _really_ think anyone at the Yard gives a damn who you're shagging as long as the CCU continues to get results?"

Her outburst is met by a moment of supercharged silence. A silence that is followed by a loud, abrasive, "And that's what you want from me, is it, Frankie? A quick shag? Well, why the hell didn't you say so before? What are we standing around here for? Let's go back to the car. I'm sure there's a quiet backstreet we can park up in somewhere round here. Won't be the first time I've screwed a woman in the back seat of my car just for the fucking sake of it."

The stark brutality of his words shakes Frankie, but it's the very real potential for violence and the barely-suppressed fury she can feel radiating from him as an almost physical force that honestly frightens her. This side of him – the darker side of him – is one she's always been very well aware of, but has only rarely seen glimpses of for herself. Irascible and impatient Boyd may very well be with his colleagues, but this… this is something infinitely wilder and more dangerous. This is the man who's been known to step a long, long way over the line when dealing with recalcitrant suspects. The man whose implacable rage and poor impulse control finally led him reluctantly but inevitably to the therapist's couch. Involuntarily Frankie takes a step back. Holds up her hands in an instinctive gesture of pacification. "Whoa. Hold on there, big guy. That's _not_ what I was talking about."

The quick rise and fall of his broad shoulders betrays just how hard and fast he's breathing, and his voice is still incredibly harsh as he demands, "No?"

"No," she says firmly, fighting to keep the very real apprehension out of her voice. "I meant what I said. I can't stop thinking about you… What it would be like to be with you… What it would be like to wake up with you… God, I can't believe I'm telling you all this. Do you _really_ need me to spell it out for you, Boyd?"

He shakes his head curtly. She can see him visibly choking down the anger, forcing it back into whatever deep, simmering place within him it occupies when it isn't dangerously boiling only just beneath the surface. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet again. "Believe me, you don't want a man like me in your life."

"You're already in my life," she points out.

"You know what I mean."

"Don't you think that's my decision?"

"I'm really not a nice guy," he tells her, his voice stark. "I'm a workaholic; an obstinate, bad-tempered pain in the arse who's absolutely incapable of walking away from _anything_ without a fight."

She wonders if he really imagines that's any kind of news to her. She shrugs. "Yeah, yeah."

"Frankie, quite apart from anything else, I'm at least fifteen years too old for you."

"Do I look like I care?"

"I have more issues and emotional baggage than you could possibly imagine."

"I'll take my chances."

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_…" he growls at her, frustration now heavy in his voice.

It's a gamble. But Frankie has never been afraid to take a gamble now and then. She stares him straight in the eye and says, "'Chasing each other's tails'? Is that what does it for you, Boyd? The chase? Not what comes afterwards?"

He looks at her for a moment, his expression now carefully composed into a completely unreadable mask. Only the deep, expressive eyes betray him – in the harsh artificial light from the street lamps they glitter, simultaneously infuriated, amused and intrigued. There's no chance of Frankie second-guessing him – after all, Peter Boyd is only ever predictable in his absolute unpredictability. He steps towards her, and she suspects he's making a deliberate show of his superior height. Holding her ground, Frankie looks up at him and quirks a measured eyebrow.

"You have no idea, do you?" he says enigmatically. "No bloody clue how much this could cost us both in the long run."

"Do you?" she asks, and she shivers as his hands settle heavily on her shoulders.

"I have a pretty good idea, yes. No-one ever walks away totally unscathed from things that just shouldn't be."

"I trust you."

"Then you're a fool," Boyd says. And then he kisses her.

It's not at all what Frankie expects. It's so much better.

-oOo-

Patiently, she watches as he intently studies the menu, his lips pursed and his dark brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown, and it takes some effort to ruthlessly suppress the urge to laugh. For all Boyd's intense concentration, Frankie's pretty damned sure that he'll ultimately choose the steak – medium-rare – and will subsequently consume it with gusto. In all the time she's known him, he's never been anything but an unrelenting and unrepentant carnivore. Then, as she's joyously beginning to learn, he's thoroughly red-blooded in _all_ his appetites.

Almost twenty-four hours have now passed since they stood together in the cold opposite Canary Wharf, and this is Boyd's very first introduction to a restaurant that Frankie's favoured for several years; a modest, quiet sort of place where the food is very simple and very good and not hideously over-priced. Mainly she likes it because it's quirky and somewhat off the beaten track, conveniently located in the urban hinterland between Stockwell and Vauxhall that she calls home. Boyd is idly rubbing his beard now, his expression still deeply contemplative and despite herself Frankie finally allows her mischievous grin to break through.

Maybe he senses her knowing amusement because he finally raises his gaze from the menu and eyes her quizzically for a moment. Not at all abashed, she grins straight back at him. Ironically, for such a notoriously impulsive character, there are some areas in which he is very conventional indeed, his usual choice of food being one of them. In such things he is endearingly conservative, and she's starting to discover just how much it entertains her. Boyd doesn't say a word – doesn't need to. His dark eyes speak for him, and they make the kind of silent promises that bode very well for an entertaining night ahead for them both. And why the hell not? It's been a long, hard week followed by a distinctly traumatic and bizarre weekend, and Frankie is not at all averse to the idea of working off some of the residual stress and tension in a highly stimulating and healthy way.

"Well…?" he asks at length.

"I'll have the fish," she says. Just as entirely predictable herself, maybe, but she really doesn't care.

Boyd glances round, summons the waiter with a slight, sharp nod. The discreetly hovering man, very young and very nervous, comes forward immediately. Frankie doesn't recall ever seeing him before. If it's not his first day working at the restaurant it's certainly his first week. Still, his performance is creditable. Initially, at least. Tragically, he falls spectacularly at the second hurdle as he asks politely, "And for your daughter, sir?"

It's the kind of magnificent _faux pas_ that legends are made of.

The temperature instantly drops by a great many degrees. On Boyd's side of the table it may in fact be fast approaching absolute zero. It's one of those moments that seem to stretch interminably but probably only last for a split second or two. Frankie's brief indignation is replaced by an inappropriate and overpowering urge to simply throw her head back and laugh loudly. Only the rapidly encroaching frost stops her from doing just that. Expression thunderous, Boyd opens his mouth to speak, but sensing trouble Frankie wisely beats him to it. As deadpan as she can manage, she quickly says, "Maybe the fish. What do you think, _dad_…?"

The baleful look that's immediately shot her way almost makes her choke. She smirks innocently in response.

There's a very long, very heavy pause before Boyd says curtly, "Apparently my _girlfriend _would like the fish."

The waiter is too young and too inexperienced to deal effectively with his excruciating mistake. He is acutely flustered and embarrassed, and he flushes a very bright and startling red, but instead of smoothly apologising he keeps his head well down and mutters a quick confirmation before scurrying away without even touching on the subject of the wine list.

Frankie is still desperately struggling not to laugh. Somehow Boyd's intimidating glower only makes the situation even funnier. Her voice a little higher and shakier than usual, she inquires, "'Girlfriend'? God, you're a fast worker, I'll give you that. One minute it's all 'chasing each other's tails', the next – "

"Shut up," Boyd growls at her from the other side of the small table. "Fuck's sake, where's the bloody manager?"

"Don't," she says immediately, reaching across to grab his hand. His skin is warm, and the fingers that curl automatically around hers are strong and sinewy. She squeezes gently. "Leave it. Poor kid's probably completely traumatised as it is."

"Yeah, and in about five minutes he'll be completely unemployed, too."

Frankie sighs and releases his hand. Instead of trying to pacify him, she drawls, "Oh, get off your high horse, Boyd; it was an honest mistake. Besides, it was funny."

"Fucking hilarious," he says sullenly, but the dangerous moment of ignition seems to have passed.

Frankie smirks again, not at all afraid to twist the knife. "You _are_ just about old enough to be my father, you know."

"And in what way is that supposed to be helping, exactly?"

"Well, you _are_."

Intense brown eyes glint dangerously at her. "Yeah, well; I'd be very careful if I were you, Frankie. Just in case daddy decides to put you over his knee and spank you."

To which Frankie can think of no immediate retort. Which is probably just as well, given that there are unexpected and interesting shivers suddenly running up and down the length of her spine and that she seems to have completely lost the power of rational thought and coherent speech.

Boyd raises a dark eyebrow at her. Amused and just a little bit smug.

She shivers again. Can't help it. Damn the man.

On balance, it's been the kind of long and intriguing weekend that Frankie's very definitely not going to forget in a hurry. And she's pretty sure it's not quite over yet.

_- the end -_


End file.
